


Roads Left in Both of our Shoes

by zinke



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-20
Updated: 2010-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinke/pseuds/zinke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All in all, it's a good life – if sometimes lonely. Not perfect by any means, but it's enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roads Left in Both of our Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> On the one year anniversary of the end of BSG, I present a little fic that pays homage to the characters and relationships I very much enjoyed watching grow and evolve over _Battlestar Galactica_ 's four seasons.
> 
> This fic has been something of a year-long labor of love for me, a way to pay homage to the characters and relationships I very much enjoyed watching grow and evolve over _Battlestar Galactica_ 's four seasons.
> 
> The book quotation used in this story was adapted from a passage in Yann Martel's _The Life of Pi_. The story's title comes from the Death Cab for Cutie song 'Soul Meets Body'.
> 
> Great and everlasting thanks go to nnaylime and caz963 for their continuous encouragement, excellent suggestions and unwavering support, and to icedteainthebag who may or may not remember giving this story an initial read-through way back when.

*~*~*~*~*~*

 _I laid out the cabin today; it's gonna have an easterly view. You should see the light that we get here when the sun comes from behind those mountains. It's almost heavenly._

 _It reminds me of you._

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

It's been some time since Lee's had cause to contemplate the old days. After setting out from the landing site so many months ago, such reminiscences have been fleeting, and few and far between, the memories of that fractured, bitter time and the flesh and blood people he shared it with at times seeming more fantastic than the notion of a real and true Earth had once been.

This morning had been different. He'd woken abruptly with the echo of Laura Roslin's long-abandoned nickname for him ringing in his ears, and try as he might, he can't seem to shake the unsettling memories of a time that feels as if it were a lifetime ago. They cling to him like the thin sheen of sweat he repeatedly wipes from his brow as he rolls up the military-issue blankets that serve as his bed and stows them in his knapsack.

There'd been a dream, too; but the few disjointed fragments he's able to recall make no sense, and there isn't time to dwell on them even if he wants to. Despite the earliness of the hour, the air tastes thick and heavy, and Lee can already feel the sun's rays beating down on his well-tanned skin. Experience has taught him that he'll have to break camp early if he wants to make any real progress before midday.

Prudent or not, Lee's thoughts refuse to remain anchored in the present and as he begins to pack up the rest of his meager belongings, he finds himself wondering where in this world the Chief might be; what sort of life the Tighs have been able to make for themselves; how his father is faring, by now undoubtedly alone.

It's not that he misses them; not exactly. He's found power and purpose in his solitude; and though he's still unsure what to do with either one of those things, it's been enough for him to know that's he's found them on his own and without anyone else holding him up or showing him the way. But he's also not ready to let go of them all just yet; they're still too much a part of him, and he senses that he needs to be still surer of himself first, before he can truly and fully let go of the past.

For today however his future is, by necessity, much more simple and short-sighted.

Pulling a battered pair of binoculars from the overstuffed knapsack at his feet, Lee turns his attention to the horizon. In the distance – about two days walk, he estimates – he can just make out a grassy ridge, peppered gray with rocks, rising gently from the valley floor. With nothing driving him save his own need to keep moving, it seems as good a destination as any. From the summit, he should have an excellent view of the surrounding countryside; he'll be able to consider his options and plan the next leg of his journey from there.

Decision made, Lee tucks the binoculars into his knapsack's side pocket, hoists the bag onto his shoulders and after giving a final glance into the distance begins to walk.

*~*~*~*~*~*

It had been little more than luck and instinct that had gotten Bill through his first few months here – luck, instinct, and _her_.

Though the landscape was lush, the rains regular, and the weather comfortably warm, there were dangers lurking beneath the seeming tranquility of this new and unfamiliar world. He'd quickly had to learn how to discern between the edible and poisonous plants, which animals could be hunted or trapped and which deserved a wide berth, which clouds would merely provide relief from the midday sun and which portended a late afternoon deluge.

As the weeks had passed and he'd become increasingly comfortable with this planet and its rhythms, Bill found himself settling into a daily routine. Rising with the sun, he'd wash in the stream at the foot of the hill and fix himself something to eat before hurrying through the other necessary chores. Once he'd dispensed with those, he could with a clear conscience spend whatever hours of daylight remained laboring to keep the promise he'd made to Laura on that final Raptor flight.

Initial progress had been slow; his regular work-outs in _Galactica_ 's gym hadn't come close to preparing him for the grueling physicality of the work – easily considered backbreaking for a healthy man in his prime, let alone an old, battle-scarred man such as himself – necessary to sustain an existence here. Most evenings he'd barely make it the fifty or so yards from the building site to the Raptor before collapsing, exhausted onto his makeshift rack and falling into a dreamless slumber. And on the rare nights when his mind was full and sleep simply wouldn't come, he'd lie by the fireside with his hands folded beneath his head, following the paths of the unfamiliar stars as they made their way across the sky.

Some mornings, the aches and pains borne from the previous day's work had made it almost impossible for him to pull himself from his bed. But Bill had never been one to back down from a challenge – or a promise – and so he'd kept at it. Little by little the rough-hewn timber frame had gone up, followed by simple clapboard siding and a sturdy, divided door. He'd fashioned the roof from the metal plating of the Raptor itself, the glass in the cabin's single easterly-facing window from its canopy, using whatever pieces of the past he could to build the future he and Laura had sacrificed so much to achieve.

When Laura had first told him about her cabin by the lake, he'd written it off as a simple, fanciful notion, Laura's way of trying to find something good in the dust and disappointment of New Caprica. To his surprise, the idea had stayed with him – with them both – and much like Earth itself, the fantasy had gradually taken on a life and authenticity all its own. Somewhere along the way, it had become _their_ cabin; no longer a self-indulgent metaphor but something that they could _both_ believe in, even after everything else they'd hoped for had been stripped away. After her death, there'd been no question in his mind as to whether he'd build it; doing so had been the only way Bill could think of to keep her memory alive – and in doing so, keep her with him just that little bit longer.

He'd hoped to finish the structure within a year, and though he'd missed his self-imposed deadline by almost three months, the day he carried the battered pair of military-issue duffle bags over the threshold had been no less meaningful. The sense of accomplishment he'd felt had been marred only by his disappointment that Laura wasn't there with him to share the moment and their home with him. He'd hesitated in the doorway for several minutes, looking around the sparsely furnished room before stepping inside and placing both bags on the simple wooden bed situated directly across from the window.

From one bag, he'd pulled a short stack of books – a few of his favorites and several others with sentimental value – to place on the narrow bookshelf by the side of the bed, followed by several sets of field fatigues, tanks, and boxer shorts which he hung on a series of pegs lining the wall. From the other he'd removed several framed photographs, which he'd carefully placed on a small side table: the picture of him and his sons, given to him by his crew on the day of the decommissioning; the formal shot of Laura and him that had hung in his quarters, marking her as family long before she'd come to live with him; and finally the snapshot of Laura and Billy that she'd kept by her side throughout the years.

A few other, more practical concerns and that had been it. After stowing the empty duffels under the bed, he'd turned to admire his handiwork and wondered what Laura would have thought of it. Even though she wasn't here to see it, this was still as much Laura's cabin as it was his; the home and hope they'd shared and that had ultimately carried them here, to this planet and this place. Housed within these simple wooden walls, he – _Admiral Atheist_ , he remembers ruefully – can feel her presence, a peace similar to what he supposes the devout must have felt upon entering one of the temples to the gods. He isn't so far gone as to believe that Laura herself is here with him; what he does accept without question, however, is what he feels every time he walks through the door.

Though the cabin is long since finished, Bill still wakes each day at dawn – the old soldier in him wouldn't have it otherwise. But rather than setting immediately to work as he'd once done, he now allows himself the time to linger over a particular passage in a book, take a leisurely walk, or sip a cup of tea while watching the sun crest over the distant mountains. He's found a measure of contentment in the simplicity of each day's rhythms and requirements: checking his traps for game, making repairs to the cabin when needed, tending the small garden he'd planted at the southern side of the house, cooking his meals over an open fire.

All in all, it's a good life – if sometimes lonely. Not perfect by any means – not exactly the dream he and Laura had spent so many hours talking about. But it's enough.

On this particular morning Bill rises early and in relative darkness, after having reluctantly spent the majority of the past two days in bed, struck down by what he presumes to be this planet's version of a nasty head cold. And though he feels no better this morning – if anything the roiling of his stomach and heaviness in his chest has gotten worse – the restlessness borne from his inactivity has grown to be too much and so he pulls himself out of bed in spite of his lingering malaise.

Deciding to skip his usual breakfast of fruit and millet-cake, he instead brews himself a weak cup of tea before slowly making his way out of the cabin, following the familiar path to a small outcropping of rock that has long been one of his favorite spots to watch the sunrise.

He sits for a while, taking occasional sips from a battered tin cup until the sky gradually begins to lighten, and the familiar colors of sunrise bloom along the horizon's edge like watercolors on the page. It's these mornings he spends contemplating the sunrise – as he had the morning after he'd first landed here and laid Laura to rest – when he feels closest to her. The deep reds and oranges of the dawn gradually give way to softer, more tempered hues as the sun climbs slowly towards the horizon. And when it finally breaks over the peaks, the brilliance of its rays is nearly blinding.

It's at that moment that he sees her.

There had been a few mornings, like this one, when Bill could have sworn he'd seen something out of the corner of his eye – a flicker of sun-kissed auburn, a flutter of crimson set against the powdery blue-grey sky. The first few times it had happened, Bill had turned more or less out of instinct – or perhaps desperation – unable to control his emotional reaction or the anxious hammering of his heart. Each and every time he'd been left feeling both heartsick and disappointed, and so he'd long ago given up on attempting to see anything more.

This time, it is no mere glimpse of color he sees, but a seemingly solid figure – its every curve as familiar to him now as they had been the last time he'd seen her – making its way through the scrub toward him. His first thought is that he must be sicker than he'd originally assumed and that he'd be best served by going back to bed as quickly as possible. But before he's marshaled the strength to pull himself to his feet, she sits down beside him and he finds himself incapable of doing anything other than stare in disbelief at what he is seeing.

Laura. Here. Looking vital, alive and impossibly _real_.

Bill could even swear that the gossamer touch he feels on his skin is not the wind but the brush of her arm against his as she draws her knees to her chest and looks off into the distance. "You chose a beautiful spot, Bill. It's perfect."

The mellow timbre of her voice – once as familiar to him as his own – now seems strangely unnatural to his ears and the sound of it is enough to snap him out of his stunned stupor. "This isn't real," he insists as he turns away from her and returns his attention to the distant hills.

"Yes it is," she insists softly. He doesn't react, doesn't respond; just as he's beginning to convince himself that his assertion about her had been correct, he hears her again, her voice stronger this time and tinged with impatience. "Bill, ignoring me isn't going to change the fact that I'm here."

Bill bows his head and huffs softly. Laura must find some degree of encouragement in the sound, because a moment later she's moved around to kneel in front of him, ducking her head in an attempt to meet his eyes. "You've been talking to me all this time; is it so hard to believe that I might someday decide to say something back?"

Swallowing heavily, Bill stares at the apparition before him, silently considering her question. Laura is right of course; since the day he'd first landed here he's been sharing bits and pieces of this life with her; telling her about the progress he'd made on the cabin, the new plants he'd found and added to the garden, the herds of fantastical animals he'd stumble upon while out collecting firewood. Grief and loneliness aside, the habit had become a vital and natural part of his daily existence.

Even after all this time, he hasn't been able – or willing – to find a way to live without her.

But this…this is too much; and after rising silently to his feet, Bill haltingly makes his way back to the cabin. He swipes angrily at the wetness on his cheeks as he stumbles through the doorway and sits heavily on the edge of the bed. Cradling his face in his hands, he does his best to disregard the discomfort in his chest as he struggles to take several deep, even breaths in an effort to regain control of his emotions.

A moment later Bill feels it again – a tantalizing sensation of warmth against his skin – and he knows without having to lift his head that she's somehow followed him inside. "Stop this," he mumbles brokenly, unsure at this point whether he is pleading with Laura or himself. "Please."

When she answers a moment later, her voice is tinged with regret. "I can't. And neither can you."

"You're wrong," he insists halfheartedly.

"Maybe," she concedes. "But even if you could make me go away, Bill…would you really want to?"

He's thrown by the both the question and the matter-of-fact tone in which it was asked; looking up, he finds standing just inside the doorway and the sight of her framed by the soft morning sunlight spilling through the doorway, literally takes his breath away. Closing his eyes, he silently berates himself for having forgotten how exceptionally beautiful she'd been.

"I don't know," he eventually croaks.

"Yes, you do," Laura counters with a wry quirk of her lips. "You're just not willing to admit it."

The tone and manner of her response is so familiar – and so quintessentially _her_ – that Bill can't help but chuckle thinly in response. The moment is abruptly broken however, when his quiet laughter abruptly degenerates into a painful, wracking cough. As he labors to catch his breath, Bill glances up and is surprised to find Laura watching him intently, an expression he could only describe as remorse clouding her features. Before he's had time to think on it further, he's overcome by another round of coughing and by the time he's had a chance to once again compose himself she's lowered her head, allowing her hair to obscure her face.

"Haven't had a cold this bad since I caught that frakking bug on New Caprica," he rasps while rubbing a fisted hand against his sternum in an attempt to dispel the burning ache that only seems to worsen with each exhalation.

Looking up, Laura offers him a fleeting ghost of a smile, before allowing her gaze to wander along the perimeter of the cabin's only room. "May I?" she asks, taking a tentative step further into the room.

Bill nods, and watches with a mixture of pride and disbelief as she makes her way around the space, taking her time as she inspects the rough-hewn furnishings, neat stone hearth and carefully arrayed framed photographs on the small side table by the chair. Her gaze lingers on the picture of the two of them, and absently she reaches out for it – only to jerk her hand back an instant before her fingertips make contact. She casts a self-conscious glance over her shoulder towards him before hastily moving on, coming to a stop by the bookshelves nestled against the wall next to the bed.

This time the smile she gives him is genuine as she bends down and begins to peruse the shelf's meager contents. "I always loved this about your quarters. And you," she adds wistfully a moment later.

Slowly, Bill gets to his feet and moves to stand beside her. "Seems a waste somehow; that this is all that's left."

Laura pulls herself up and turns to face him before stating levelly, "It was the right choice, Bill."

Bill thinks back, taking his time to mull over every moment, every decision made since that fateful day so many years ago, and marvels at how unbelievable it all seems now. "I'm not so sure I believe in 'right' and 'wrong' anymore."

He isn't aware he's spoken the words aloud until Laura asks him gently, "What do you mean?"

Bill takes a moment to look around the small room, somehow feeling as if he's seeing it for the first time; then returns his attention to Laura, standing before him with cheeks flushed and the fiery tendrils of her hair falling loosely about her face. Suddenly, he's struck by the absolute _rightness_ of the moment, and with that realization he feels the last of his remaining doubts slip away. "Maybe some things really are just…meant to be."

Laura cocks her head slightly, searching his features in that way she's always had that makes him feel as if she can see right through him. Whatever it is she finds there, the indulgent smile she gives him a moment later makes her opinion clear.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Bill reaches out to take her hand in his own but before he's able to do so she's ducked down out of his reach and is once again scanning the titles lining the shelf. "You still have it."

"What?"

She indicates a thin, battered volume at the far end of the shelf with a nod of her head. He knows which book it is without having to look; knows each one of them and their place on the shelf like the back of his hand. But this book in particular…the words held within its warped, burnt covers have become some of his closest companions of late, carrying him through many a rainy day or sleepless night.

He holds a hand to his side and winces as he bends stiffly down beside her and pulls the book from the shelf. He lightly smoothes his palm across the cover, then turns and offers it to Laura. But rather than take the book – hers by rights, a gift – she instead shakes her head slowly, her eyes sad as she asks softly, "Read to me?"

Bill holds her gaze for beat, then settles himself on the floor and leans against the bedframe. Opening the book, Bill begins to flip through the pages as Laura sits down beside him and closes her eyes, breathing a contended sigh when he finally begins to speak.

 _"I discovered at that moment that I had a fierce will to live. It's not something evident, in my experience. Some of us give up on life with only a resigned sigh. Others fight a little, then lose hope. Still others never give up. They fight and fight and fight. They fight no matter the cost of battle, the losses they take, the improbability of success. They fight to the very end. It's not a question of courage. It's something constitutional, an inability to let go."_

Keeping this thumb tucked between the pages he closes the book and casts a glance at Laura, his heart swelling at the beatific smile gracing her lips. Slowly her eyes open to meet his, but instead of the contentment he's anticipating, there's a profound sadness shining from within their depths, an emotion made all the more troubling by the grave expression that unexpectedly darkens her features. "Do you remember what you wrote to me, on the day you gave me that book?"

There's a sudden, searing pain in his chest, and Bill inhales deeply, swallowing hard against it as he waits for the discomfort to dissipate. "'May the real journey never end'," he rasps eventually, reciting the words from memory.

Her gaze flicks imperceptibly to his chest before once again meeting his eyes. "It doesn't end, Bill. And that's why I'm here."

"What do you mean?" Bill hisses as another wave of pain hits, and the book falls from his ineffectual fingers to the floor with a dull clatter. This time its grip on him is stronger, and it's growing increasingly difficult for him to catch his breath.

Laura moves closer, so that her face is mere inches from his; despite the tears clouding his vision he can clearly read the desperate intensity in her eyes. "Do you believe me, Bill? That I'm here, now, with you?"

"I've always believed in you, Laura," he grinds out, trying to tell her with his eyes what he can no longer find the breath to tell her aloud.

There are tears in her eyes as she reaches out – slowly, hesitantly – and seems as surprised as he is when her palm – warm, soft and gentle – makes contact with the stubbled skin of his cheek. Moving to rest her forehead against his, she brushes her thumb rhythmically back and forth against his cheekbone. With each caress the agony in his chest seems to ease; and with a sigh Bill leans into the contact and closes his eyes.

He feels the brush of her lips against the corner of his mouth, and then her breath against his ear as she whispers, "Lay down with me."

With Laura's help, he rises awkwardly to his feet, his breathing growing more labored as she helps him lie back upon the mattress. She joins him on the bed a moment later, wrapping an arm around his waist and tangling her legs with his. They lay that way for several minutes: face-to-face, Bill laboring for every breath as Laura watches in mournful resignation, brushing the hair from his sweat-dampened forehead with her fingertips.

"It's okay, Bill. Just let go," she murmurs, moving her hand to his chest to rest above his heart.

Another wave of pain – this one muted, duller than the last – and he closes his eyes as she pulls him closer and rests her cheek against his. "It's time to let go," he hears her breathe as gradually, inexplicably, the pain begins to recede, his breathing eases and his muscles relax. Her hand remains a constant, soothing weight against his chest as she continues to whisper softly to him, her breath warm against his cheek. Blindly he reaches out to pull her closer, burying his head in the crook of her neck as the world around him slowly begins to fade away. For the first time in years he feels a sense of absolute peace, and with a sigh he allows the feeling to wash over him.

He lets go.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

It takes Lee nearly two weeks to traverse the length of the valley, and another day to climb the gentle slope of the valley wall. By the time he reaches the top of the ridge it's nearly sundown – too dark to make much of the surrounding landscape – and so he decides to find a place to make camp for the night and wait until morning to figure out where he'll be off to next.

The terrain on which he's standing is rocky and thick with tall, dry grasses – not safe for a fire and uncomfortable for sleeping – and so he begins to make his way south, to where the ground appears greener and more level. He's following what appears to be a deer path through a small copse of trees when he hears it – the inexplicable murmuring of his name, spoken in Laura Roslin's unmistakable, velvety alto, carrying on the wind. It's enough to make him stop in his tracks, listening intently for another wisp of the achingly familiar sound. But all he can hear is the rustling of the leaves above his head, and breathing a frustrated sigh Lee turns back to the trail he'd been following.

It's then that he sees it; an out-of-place splash of color through the dense leaves of the trees. Narrowing his eyes, Lee glances skyward to gauge how much daylight he has left and, after assuring himself he has time enough, he leaves the trail to investigate.

It takes him only a few minutes to make his way through the brush, whereupon he finds himself standing at the edge of a clearing which has a commanding view of the valley and distant hills he's so recently left behind. And to his left – much to his disbelief – stands a neat little cabin, set some ways back from the rocky edge of the ridge.

Lee blinks, unable to believe his eyes as he takes in the weathered clapboard siding, the roof's familiar olive metal plating, the tidy garden hugging the side of the house. Cautiously he makes his way across the clearing, and once near enough reaches out a hand to grasp hold of the structure's northeasterly corner. The wood is solid and rough against his fingertips, and he can't help but laugh aloud in amazement. In the eighteen months since he set out from the landing site, he's yet to encounter anyone or anything from before and while he spends most of his time trying not to look back to the past, the prospect of seeing a familiar face is exciting nonetheless.

Stepping back, he casts his gaze about the clearing, searching for some sign of life. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

As he waits and the silence continues to lengthen, Lee's anticipation gradually gives way to apprehension. Dropping his knapsack at his feet, he reaches behind him and pulls a knife from a loop on his belt before cautiously making his way towards the cabin's shuttered front door. Lee pauses by it long enough to glance through a small window cut neatly into the timber, but the dwindling light and distortions made by the window's curved pane make it difficult for him to make anything out. He can detect no signs of motion from inside; and other than a few large, shadowy objects that are most likely pieces of furniture, the place appears to be deserted.

Tamping down his disappointment, Lee pulls a small flashlight from the pocket of his knapsack and after a final moment's hesitation, opens the door and steps inside.

He doesn't notice him right away; it's only after he's lit the small field lamp he finds just inside the doorway, bathing the room in a pale bluish light, that he sees his father lying curled on his side, motionless, on the bed.

There's a half-second where Lee entertains the possibility that Bill is merely sleeping, and hadn't heard his earlier calls, the creak of the door, his footfalls. But all too quickly the reality of the situation – the stale, sour tang in the air, the absence of even a single glowing ember in the hearth, the thin layer of dust coating the furniture and floor – asserts itself. As much as he may want to, he can't seem to look away; and with his blood roaring in his ears, Lee blindly reaches out to grip the doorjamb in an effort to keep himself upright.

It feels like hours before he's feeling steady enough to take the few, halting steps necessary to carry him to the side of the bed. His father's hand is cold when he takes it in his; and it is this undeniable evidence that saps what little hope and strength Lee has left. He sinks down to sit on the edge of the mattress, closing his eyes and holding his head in his hands as he fights against the panic and grief that are threatening to consume him.

As often as he's wondered about his father and what might have become of him, Lee had never allowed himself to imagine something like this. When he was a child, Bill had always seemed to be larger than life – and therefore like the gods themselves, all but immune to its end. Even as an adult – having acknowledged his father's many shortcomings and knowing full well the risks he, first as Commander and later Admiral, took every day – that indomitable image has stubbornly stayed with him. Until now. Overcome by the sight of the pale, lifeless body lying before him, Lee simply can't keep hold of the long-held belief any longer; the man who had saved them all, who he'd loved and spent his life idolizing, is gone.

For the first time in almost two years, he cries.

Gradually the tears begin to subside and, rising to his feet, Lee looks around the small, tidy room. He cocks his head to read the title of each book, marvels at his father's seeming ability to make even clothing that's seen better days and hung on a series of pegs look orderly and precise. He lingers over the decades-old photograph of his dad, Zak and he, before picking up the framed image of his father and Laura with a melancholy smile.

They'd loved each other. He hadn't wanted to see it at first – had kept himself closed off from noticing so many things back then. But his father's behavior during Baltar's trial, and on the day Lee had cross-examined Laura in particular, had been all but impossible to ignore. And though Lee had begrudged his father for many things throughout his life, he had never resented him for having been able to find some small measure of happiness – however short-lived it may ultimately have been.

It takes him a few minutes, but eventually Lee finds a tattered woolen blanket folded into a duffle bag under the bed. Tucking it under his arm he moves to push himself to his feet – and pauses when he notices a book, lying open and face down on the stone floor near the head of the bed. Picking it up, he flips curiously through the pages, pausing from time to time to read a sentence or two. Lee thinks he remembers his father telling him that it had been a favorite of his; but it's only when he happens upon the handwritten inscription on the book's title page that he understands why his father had wanted to keep it with him.

Closing the book, he presses his palm against the charred and fraying cover before placing it in his father's hands and tucking it carefully against his chest. Bowing his head, Lee gives a halting and most likely inaccurate recitation of the prayer for the dead, taking solace in the fact that his father – on this occasion in particular – would have most likely welcomed Lee's botching of this most solemn of religious rites.

The prayer complete, Lee unfurls the blanket and drapes it carefully over his father's body and after taking a final look around the room, he extinguishes the lamp and steps outside, closing the door firmly behind him. He's been inside the cabin long enough for darkness to have descended, but he does not reach for his flashlight as he walks over to his knapsack and pulls a piece of flint from a small side pocket.

His hand doesn't falter as he strikes the knife blade against the rock, sending a shower of sparks onto the neatly layered clapboard shingles of the cabin's easterly wall. It isn't long before the wood begins to smolder; and Lee backs away slowly, gaze never faltering as he tucks the flint into his back pocket and returns the knife to his belt.

Dry-eyed, Lee stands witness as the smoke gradually begins to rise, unfettered, to mingle with the stars.

It's only when the heat and light from the flames become too intense that he turns and reaches for his knapsack, slinging it over his shoulder before taking a final look back. "Goodbye, Dad," he murmurs sadly, before setting off the way he'd come, through the trees to the rocky outcropping he'd earlier dismissed as a suitable campsite. His previous objections are largely irrelevant at this point, anyway; he doubts he'll be getting much sleep tonight and he simply can't bring himself to light another fire tonight.

So instead he sits in the inky darkness, keeping watch through the night as the hazy nimbus of light being thrown by the fire gradually grows dimmer, giving way to lazy, gossamer-white plumes of smoke just as the first rays of the sun break over the peaks of the distant mountains. Shielding his eyes, Lee looks to the horizon and lets the long suppressed memories wash over him one after the other, warming him with the sun.

Long after the last vestiges of orange and red have faded from the sky, Lee pulls himself stiffly to his feet, shedding the worn duty uniform coat he'd donned overnight to keep off the chill and stowing it into his knapsack. Today promises to be another hot one; the breeze from the night before is all but gone and there isn't a cloud to be seen in the sky above. He'll have to decide upon a route quickly if he's to make any real progress before midday.

He spots a high plateau less than a quarter-click away that should give him a clear view of the surrounding landscape. Knapsack shouldered, he takes a long draught from a battered canteen and sets out.

He doesn't look back.

 

*fin.*


End file.
